


Uri, Vinciri, Verberari

by merle_p



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e11, Flirting, Gladiators, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, M/M, Nasir Is Still Tiberius, Pre-Slash, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merle_p/pseuds/merle_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tiberius' dominus takes interest in German gladiator Agron, and sends his slave to deliver gifts. Set during Season 1, Episode 11.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uri, Vinciri, Verberari

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



> Written for Spock, who requested Agron/Nasir, and said they would like to see a new take on an earlier meeting between the two boys. I hope you enjoy this, even though it turned out slightly more pre-slashy than you might have wanted! 
> 
> The title translates to something like "I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten." The line is taken from what was supposedly the gladiator's oath - the complete oath reads "uri, vinciri, verberari, ferroque necari" (“I will endure to be burned, to be bound, to be beaten, and to be killed by the sword”).

There are few things Tiberius detests as much as he does the games. He has witnessed many fights over the years, and yet he still marvels how any culture calling itself civilized could bring forth this barbaric a pastime. But as great as Tiberius’ hate for the arena is Caius Potitius’ love for it, and thus, necessity has taught him to pretend. He smiles in spite of nausea caused by the smell of animal excrements, blood and entrails. He smiles to cover his feelings of revulsion when Dominus hardens under his toga at the sight of human bodies ripped apart. He smiles and is silent when Dominus pleases to make use of him later at night, blood still roaring with feverish excitement. 

Even with continuous practice, it still proves difficult at times. Tiberius stands next to Chadara at Dominus’ back, and he is glad of it, for it means that Dominus will not see if the smile threatens to fall from his lips. Chadara does not mind attending the games as much, although her love for fighting is no greater than his. It is the gladiators that hold her attention, her eyes drawn to the strong bodies glistening with oil and sweat, and Tiberius would be quick to agree with her if their beauty was not marred so much by dirt, piss, blood and death. 

Batiatus’ gladiators are famous beyond the walls of Capua for outdoing all others not only in skill, but in beauty as well, and Dominus prefers to attend the games when they are to fight. The two fighters down in the arena, being new additions to Batiatus’ stable, do not match the infamous Spartacus’ glorious physique just yet, but their form is pleasing enough. The taller one has defeated his opponent quickly, and Tiberius takes care to watch long enough to confine the image to memory, for Dominus often wishes to discuss his favorite victories at home. This fight will likely be one of them, Tiberius knows: From his position, he can his dominus shifting in his seat and his breath quickening as he watches the man striking to kill.

Tiberius’ glance follows his line of sight. The victorious gladiator has proven to be a skilled fighter, but his triumph is short-lived. The man’s attention is drawn to his comrade, who struggles with his opponent, and Tiberius sees him losing ground, backing away from the deadly blows. 

“They are brothers,” Chadara whispers, and Tiberius shifts closer without taking his eyes off the fight. 

“How would you know?”

He hears Chadara’s smile in her voice. She plays the gossip game better than he does, and hardly ever betrays her sources. “Brothers from Germania, named Agron and Duro. Both were among Batiatus’ latest acquisitions.” She pauses. “I fear only one will achieve fame.”

Tiberius finds himself agreeing with her, and secretly pities the man who has won the fight, but is to lose a brother. But faster than he can blink, the victorious German reaches for the fallen gladiator’s spear, and already the second opponent falls, his blood covering the man on the sand he was preparing to kill. The young man on the ground rids himself of his helmet to share a heavy look with his brother. Even from the distance, Tiberius can see that his eyes speak of disappointment and shame, not pride or relief. 

“Tiberius.” Impatience colors Potitius’ voice, and Tiberius finds himself drawn back to the balcony. 

“Master.” His bow is deeper than propriety requires, to make Dominus forget his brief distraction, but the patrician’s attention is not on him. 

“The German gladiator who just killed two men,” he says, pointing down at the brothers leaving the arena with heavy steps. “He goes by name of Agron, I believe. Convey my admiration.”

Dominus presses a small pouch in his hand, and Tiberius’s fingers recognize a round object likely made of metal, but not in the size of a coin. 

“Yes, Dominus,” he replies politely, and bows again to hide a sigh. 

 

It is not the first time Tiberius ventures to the hypogeum underneath the arena, and yet he still recoils from the heavy smells emerging from the tunnels. He wills his features to reveal nothing when the guard at the entrance looks at him with interest. Tiberius knows what men down here see in him: There is no hiding what he is, and men in the arena often hold nothing but contempt for house slaves, as they consider them weak. And yet, his position as body slave elevates him above them, and most have reason enough to understand that the consequences of hurting a patrician’s personal slave could be more severe than facing lions on the sand. Thus, the condescension shows only in his eyes, but not his voice, when he asks for Tiberius’ purpose. 

Tiberius keeps his head high and his voice cool. “My dominus, Caius Potitius, sends message for Agron, gladiator in the house of Quintus Lentulus Batiatus.”

The guard smirks, but does not comment. “Come with me,” he merely says, and Tiberius follows him into the tunnel, steeling his mind for things to come.

He knows that there are different paths that lead to the gladiators’ cells, but the guards often amuse themselves by leading him past the spoliarum. He does not voice complaint, but holds his breath and takes care to step around the blood pooling in cracks at his feet. In vain, for more blood continues to drip down from the heap of mangled bodies to his left, raw pieces of flesh and scraps of cloth, an arm, a sandal-clad foot. He resigns himself to discarding the shoes upon his arrival at home. Even as he walks past, slaves carry in more body parts to deposit on the growing pile. Tiberius does not look at them but from the corner of his eye, his gaze fastened on the narrow tunnel straight ahead. The noise leaking from the pathway increases as he approaches, sound of moans and cries and ugly laughter. He longs for fresh air. 

The laughter turns into whistling and suggestive calls as he steps into the tunnel. That, too, he has come to expect. Both sides are lined with cells holding the gladiators still waiting for their fight, grateful for the distraction he offers. Tiberius ignores them, sidesteps a hand reaching for him, and reminds himself that he pities these men. Many of them will not live to see another day. 

When at last, the guard comes to stand in front of a cell at the end of the tunnel, Tiberius recognizes the brothers at once, even though neither is looking his way. They appear engaged in an argument, uttering angry phrases in foreign tongue. Tiberius does not need to know their words’ meaning to guess the subject of their fight. Clearly, the weaker brother did not take kindly to being saved. 

“Visitor for you,” guard announces, sounding bored, and walks away before the tall one even turns around, in search for the voice’s origin. Victorious in the arena, he appears defeated now, frustration and fatigue battling over his features. Water drips from his face – he has likely made attempt to wash, but without much success: dirt and blood are still smudged across his cheeks, his forehead, crusting in his short blond beard. When his eyes fall on Tiberius, he pauses, and stares without shame.

Tiberius catches himself staring back, and quickly drops his gaze. His eyes fasten on a scar marring the man’s chest, just over his heart, old, but still raised and furiously red. Tiberius lifts his gaze again. 

“Are you Agron, gladiator in the house of Batiatus?”

The man continues to stare. “Are you Agron?” Tiberius asks again, but the man still makes no attempt at response. Tiberius begins to fear that he may not speak Latin, when the younger brother raises his voice. 

“He is also a gigantic ass,” he grumbles, looking back at them over his shoulder. His accent is heavy, but his Latin fluent. Agron glares at him, and Tiberius feels pity for the man who has not yet been forgiven for saving his brother’s life. 

He raises a brow at the younger one. “And yet, as his brother, you are of his kind, are you not?”

There is a moment of silence, then Agron laughs out loud. To Tiberius’ surprise, his brother joins in without ire, merely amused at a stranger’s insult. 

“The Gods have chosen to reward me,” Agron finally says, when their laughter has quieted down. He yet smiles, but speaks in a serious voice. “You are most pleasing sight I have laid eyes upon today.”

Tiberius feels a blush rise on his cheeks. He knows his worth, and is no stranger to compliments, but most come from those free to do with him as they please, and have no purpose but to provide a drop of honey to ease the way for injuries to come. 

“No difficult feat, with the company you keep,” he finally says, and Agron laughs again. His teeth are of an extraordinary white, a bright glow in his sun-burned dirty face. 

“Truer words have not been spoken,” he agrees, ignoring his brother who sticks out his tongue at him in response. “But what purpose leads someone like you to place like this?”

His words remind Tiberius of his task, and allow him to shake off the strange uncertainty as he straightens his spine. The role of body slave is one he has rehearsed for most of his life, and the distance and formality provide comfort in their familiarity now.

“My dominus, Caius Potitius, wishes to convey congratulations on your performance in arena.” 

He opens the pouch and is not surprised to discover a golden fibula in the shape of the sun, covered in different precious stones. He runs a thumb over the surface to assess its worth, then offers the brooch to Agron with a small tilt of his head. 

The man makes no move to take it, but looks at him in confusion. “What is this?”

Tiberius smiles, in spite of himself. “I can see that you have not been gladiator for long. My dominus favors you. Gift is sign of his interest.”

The mocking arrogance in his voice is an old habit of self-preservation, but Agron appears too preoccupied to notice. 

“Should I accept?” 

The trust Agron places in him with his question is inappropriate, but Tiberius wills himself not to think about how much. “It is gold, not poison. If you accept, my dominus will send more after your next victory. If his interest proves more than fleeting, perhaps he will pay visit to Batiatus, and you will be expected to provide entertainment.” 

“He would have me, you mean.” Agron’s voice is flat, and there is no surprise in his eyes, only the resignation and annoyance of one who knows what to expect. It is true, then, Tiberius thinks, what is said about Batiatus’ gladiators. Their duties are not limited to fighting. 

“He would rather have you have him,” Tiberius corrects, then bites his tongue. Such preferences are confidential knowledge that his dominus would have him keep secret. While far from uncommon, it is not a practice to which any respectable Roman citizen would readily admit. Potitius’ reputation would suffer greatly, were his proclivities to become public knowledge, and he would not be pleased if he knew that his body slave such betrayed his confidence. 

Agron, however, does not show disgust at his words, nor does his brother, who badly pretends not to listen. For but a second, Tiberius wonders if people from East of Rhenus truly love differently than Romans do, then discards the thought quickly, for fear of where it might lead. Fantasies are not a luxury any slave in his position can afford. That way lies at best madness, and death at worst. 

Finally, the younger brother gives up his pretense at indifference. “Take fucking gift, idiot,” the young man says with impatience, and Tiberius is grateful for the support, as rude as the words may be. He would not have a gladiator’s pride – foolish if honorable – make all of them miserable.

“Take it,” he urges. “It is of significant worth. One day it could help buy your freedom, if you live long enough.” 

He lowers his eyes, a well-practiced technique of seduction. The sweep of his lashes has swayed stronger men, but to his disappointment, the gladiator does not appear moved. 

“What does it matter to you?” he asks, curiosity in his voice. It is not a question Tiberius wishes to answer truthfully, but he also does not want to lie. 

“If you reject my dominus’ favors, I will be treated as bearer of bad news upon my return.” 

“You will be punished,” Agron states. Tiberius shrugs. It is not the full truth, but it is true enough. To his surprise, the gladiator nods, jaw set. 

“Give my gratitude to your dominus, then.” 

The man reaches out toward him. His hand is too big to slip between the iron bars with ease, and his wrist barely fits the gap between the rods. Tiberius averts eyes from the sight, and offers the fibula quickly, but Agron ignores the gold, and takes hold of Tiberius’ wrist instead. His grip is gentle, but firm enough that Tiberius could not shake it off without effort. Agron tugs him closer to the bars, and Tiberius takes one step forward, warily. 

“And what is your name, little man?” Agron asks lightly. “I believe you owe me as much if I am to accept gift from Romans to save your skin.” His thumb is drawing idle patterns against the sensitive skin of Tiberius’ arm, but the man does not appear to notice. 

Tiberius casts furtive glances to his left and right. Agron’s brother has made retreat to the back wall of the cell, pointedly staring at nothing, but Tiberius has no doubt that he memorizes every word from their mouths. Fortunately, they do not appear to have drawn much attention from others, with the exception of two men in the cell to their left. When they notice Tiberius’ eyes on them, they carefully turn away. He hopes that they mean well. 

“My dominus calls me Tiberius,” he responds at last. 

Agron frowns. “A Roman name,” he says. “Were you born a slave?”

“What importance does it hold?” Tiberius asks warily. Those captured by Romans as prisoners of war never understand what it is like not to remember freedom, and he does not wish to argue. Suddenly he feels like he cannot bear any longer the feeling of Agron’s touch, or his eyes upon him. He tries to retrieve his hand, but Agron does not let go, for all he appears chastised at his words. 

“I apologize,” the man says quickly. “I did not mean any offense.”

“None taken,” Tiberius replies. Already, he feels remorse at his harsh words. "I must return to my dominus now,” he says softly, allowing himself to show the regret he feels. “He will soon notice my absence. I would have you take fibula and release me, if you will.”

Agron’s eyes do not waver, but the grip around his arm loosens, and he pulls free. Agron presents his open hand, and Tiberius places the brooch in his palm. After a moment of hesitation, he closes Agron’s fist around the gold with his own fingers. Then he removes his hand.

“There,” he says quietly. “May it bring you good fortune in fight.”

Agron nods. “And what of you?” 

“I will pray to the Gods to be with you also,” he promises, but his words do not seem to satisfy the other man. 

“You would not come to watch us fight?” he asks, as if such a thing indeed mattered.

Tiberius hesitates. “I cannot make such promise,” he admits. As the smile falls off Agron’s lips, he hurries to add: “As long as you hold Dominus’ favor, he will attend your fights, and I will be at his side.”

“Then I will aim to show you honorable fight, to make it worth your time.” Agron’s words sound like an oath, his fist clenched white around the fibula. 

Tiberius shakes his head with force. “It is not for entertainment that I would have you win. I would have you and your brother live, and see you walk away free men one day.”

“I will put my mind and heart toward that aim, then,” Agron vows. He lifts his free hand as if to reach for Tiberius again, but discards the movement at last. 

“May Fortuna smile on you, Agron from the house of Batiatus,” Tiberius says. 

Agron’s smile does not reach his eyes. “May the Gods let our paths cross again, Tiberius from the house of Potitius,” he says. 

“If it pleases the Gods,” Tiberius agrees, and turns away, least he allow himself to say anything else. He feels Agron’s eyes on him as he walks back into the tunnel, where the calls of the gladiators greet him again. To his ears, the voices appear more subdued than before, and he wonders how many more have died since he came. 

He is not prone to foolish hope, and has learned his lesson early enough, but as the guard leads him back to the exit, past those sentenced to die, and those already dead, he hopes against reason that the Gods will take as much interest in Agron’s fate as he now does.


End file.
